Half a Weasley
by quintenttsy
Summary: The Wizarding world is still recovering from Fred Weasley's death, and some are taking it harder than others. George/OC.


Ella leant against her wardrobe, trying desperately to keep the tears from falling. It had been a month since the siege on Hogwarts. A month since the greatest tragedy ever known to wizard kind.

Perhaps she was exaggerating a bit, but she knew plenty would agree with her. Plenty had lost loved ones in the run up to the terrible battle, and indeed, during the battle itself.

"Ella?" came the soft, familiar voice of the last person on earth she wanted to see. "Are you in there?"

Her body stiffened, but she said nothing. Silently, she prayed that he was just go away, that he would just leave her alone, that he would just-

"Ella?"

She cursed; George was standing right in front of her, leaning against the doorframe. She stared purposefully at his skinny, jeans-clad legs, forcing herself not to meet his imploring gaze.

"Please, Ella," he said softly, his voice cracking. "Just look at me."

It was so hard, unbelievably hard, for her to muster up the energy to shake her head slightly, her gaze still fixed on a safe spot. But then he squatted down, staring right at her with his lovely eyes. She couldn't look away, couldn't remember how to breathe for a second. It had been so long since they had been anywhere near this close. Too long.

"What do you want?" Ella asked quietly, squeezing her eyes shut. She wouldn't be able to stop herself from crying, not while he was around.

When he spoke, he sounded hurt. "I'm your friend, Ella. At least, I thought I was. But you've been ignoring me, ever since…" he trailed off, not wanting or needing to finish the sentence. "I think I know why." There was an unmistakable note of defeat in his voice. "You miss him. F- him."

It was still too raw to speak his name aloud, and even at the slight mention, Ella had to choke back a sob, burying her head in her hands. George sat on the floor beside her, folding his gangly legs in front of him. He reached out to touch her but she shrank away and he let his hand drop, stung.

"I'm sorry," he said, in a minute whisper. "I'm sorry that I'm alive and he's not. I'm sorry I can't be him. I'm sorry I'm not the one you want. I'm sorry."

Ella wanted to speak, to tell him that it wasn't his fault, but she couldn't find the words. She wanted to tell him the reason she'd been avoiding him like the bubonic plague, but she had no idea how to say it without hurting him. She wanted to hold him and cry to him and share their sorrow, but she was too scared.

"I know," she whispered back. "And so am I." She raked a hand through her hair, studying the floorboards like they were the most interesting thing on earth. "I miss him so much."

"Me too," he agreed.

"It must be like having your right arm cut off," Ella said softly.

George laughed harshly. "More like being cut in half."

Ella lifted her head slightly to look at him, and saw that he was also fixated on the floor. His face was wearing the most serious expression she had ever seen on him. It looked so unnatural, so wrong.

But the whole thing was unnatural. George without Fred was like bread without butter. George without Fred was like the sky without the sun. George without Fred was the most unimaginable thing ever, yet here it was.

And every time Ella thought about it, about how one twin would stay young forever, never growing up, and how the other would slowly grow old and die, alone, she felt the tears welling in her eyes and wanted to weep.

"Oh George," she said lamely. "I'm so sorry."

She knew the words were meaningless, something people say when they don't know what else to do, but there was nothing else _to_ say. She was sorry. She was sorry that her best friends in the world were both dead.

George may have been alive in the literal sense, but one look in his empty grey eyes said different. They were dead, devoid of emotion, devoid of humour, devoid of that spark the twins always seemed to have.

But they weren't the twins any more, and they never would be again.

"It's worse for you," she continued, trying to say something meaningful instead of mindless babble. "I mean, he was your brother."

"But he was your boyfriend," George replied quietly. "It must be weird, still seeing his face walking around every day, but on someone else's body." He laughed softly, but there was no humour in it. "Bet you wish I was the one who died, and he was the one who only lost an ear."

Ella instinctively reached out to touch the mangled remains of his ear, stroking it gently. He winced slightly, but he didn't flinch away.

"Don't," she said quietly. "Don't you _ever_ say that again. I would never do that. I would never wish for him in your place. I couldn't. I cared – I still care – about both of you."

"You loved him," he said slowly, and it's not a question. "I guess everyone loved Fred. When they could tell the difference, that is."

"I could always tell," she replied softly, still stroking his ear.

George smiled thinly. "Yeah. Guess it helps when you fancy one of them."

Her hand froze on his skin, hovering over the charred ruins. He brought his hand up to cover hers, and he looked at her intently. Slowly, he reached over with his free hand and thumbed away the tears she hadn't noticed she'd shed, his fingers hovering on her skin. She was so close she could count every last one of the freckles on his face, so close she could see the emptiness in his eyes, the complete, overwhelming despair.

So, without properly thinking through what she was doing, she reached over and kissed him slowly, her mouth lingering on his, before pulling away and wrapping her arms around him. He held her tight as her body shook with suppressed sobs, but he didn't shed a single tear. He did his crying late at night, when no one could hear him and if they did, they blamed it on the house ghoul.

Nevertheless, George closed his eyes, holding her as close as he dared. His fingers wound into her long, light hair, and he stroked her soft curls while she sobbed into his chest. He held it out in front of him, marvelling at how beautiful it was, and slowly let the strands drop. He never wanted to let her go, but she started squirming in his grasp and he reluctantly let go. He felt empty without her to fill the gaping space in his chest.

"I miss him," George said slowly, not quite looking Ella in the eye. It was a small admission, tiny even, and certainly obvious, but it helped him to say it aloud for the first time. To acknowledge his sheer, blinding grief.

"Me too," she said softly. "It just feels weird, you know? You look like him, sound like him, you even _smell_ like him-"

"But I'm not him," he finished quietly. "It's okay. I understand."

She smiled sadly, and he grimaced back.

"Friends?" he asked.

"Friends," she replied decisively.

They stood up a little uncertainly and hugged each other awkwardly for a few, brief seconds.

"Come on," Ella said softly, closing her hand around his and caressing it lightly. "Let's go."

Squeezing their eyes shut, they Disapparated together, vanishing from the room with a soft, barely audible whoosh of air.


End file.
